


in my ears

by M0stlyVoid



Series: Kinktober 2020 [16]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aural Kink, Auror Harry Potter, Dirty Talk, Fiendfyre (Harry Potter), M/M, Politician Draco Malfoy, Voice Kink, smoke inhalation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:48:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27052198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M0stlyVoid/pseuds/M0stlyVoid
Summary: Every time Harry sees Malfoy, it's a bit of a shock—he can't help but think of him how he looked when they were in school, and the reality couldn't be more different.Even knowing that, nothing prepared him for what Malfoysounds likenow.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: Kinktober 2020 [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1948741
Comments: 32
Kudos: 367





	in my ears

**Author's Note:**

> the october 16 prompt for kinkfest 2020 is— _aural kink_.
> 
> i took a little break yesterday because i was feeling hella sick, but we are back to our regularly scheduled programming; i'll be posting two today!

When Harry thinks about Malfoy these days (which isn’t _that_ much, _Ronald,_ shut up), his mind conjures up the oddest amalgamation. He pulls up an image that’s half-fact, and half his hazy memories of how Malfoy looked, acted, and spoke at school. Seeing Malfoy in the flesh is always a shock, even though he knows empirically what the reality is.

He knows what Malfoy looks like now, knows how he’s grown into his pointy chin and too-long, too-skinny limbs, knows that he wears his hair long like Lucius, but that he no longer Charms it stick-straight, so it curls at the ends like Narcissa’s. Harry knows that Malfoy doesn’t wear black much any more (at _all,_ if Hermione is to be believed), favouring jewel-tones when he’s not striding about the Ministry in the dark purple of his Wizengamot robes.

Harry also knows that he hasn’t heard Malfoy talk since the Battle.

The Malfoys had avoided charges by virtue of Narcissa and Lucius abandoning Voldemort during the Battle of Hogwarts, and Draco being underage for the majority of his offenses. Lucius and Narcissa, once the dust had settled and they were no longer in danger of being hauled in for trial, had quietly taken up residence at their estate in the south of France, only returning to London for the occasional fundraiser. Draco had taken up his father’s mantle in the Wizengamot, and could be found co-authoring and sponsoring the majority of the more progressive bills Hermione and others were pushing through.

He never spoke for them, though. He’d sit with the other authors, lending silent support and the weight of his family name and money, but he never stood up to talk about them, never answered questions, never spoke with reporters; he’d release written statements, but declined to comment if he was questioned in public.

Harry thought it was typical, that Malfoy would speak with his money instead of actually taking a stance. Hermione argued that he’d truly changed, that he was invaluable in designing the bills to appeal to the broadest possible base, and that without his name and contributions they wouldn’t have passed a single reform. Ron rolled his eyes and would loudly ask if there was _anyone_ he could be friends with, or married to, that would spare him from the _constant chat over Draco bloody Malfoy,_ for Merlin’s sake?

What it boils down to, though, is that when Harry thinks about what it might be like to talk to Malfoy now (which, again, _Ron,_ is _not_ that often), he hears that whiny, nasal tenor that Malfoy had shouted insults and taunts with all throughout school.

Which is why he’s standing in the entryway of Malfoy Manor at four in the morning, clutching a notebook and biro and blinking in confusion as his partner takes down Malfoy’s statement.

He must be staring, because Malfoy pauses and raises an eyebrow at him; Harry can feel himself flush as he looks down at the notepad and assiduously scribbles down what’s being said.

Harry’s ears are hot as he listens to Malfoy recount the events that summoned the Aurors; an unknown intruder managed to breach the ancient family wards, and Malfoy had woken to someone standing over his bed, a wand pointed in between his eyes. He’d managed to dodge the curse, which had left a massive singe in his bedding, and when the assailant realized Malfoy had managed to get his wand in hand, they had fled through the window and gotten past the property line before Malfoy was able to summon any of the Manor’s defences to detain them.

Harry diligently records Malfoy’s recollections, but he barely registers a single word; all he can think about is how Malfoy _sounds_ now.

Gone is the grating, nasal tone that mocked Harry from across the Quidditch pitch and hurled epithets at Hermione. Draco sounds… His voice is raspy and low, quiet enough that you have to lean in to hear him, and he sounds like he’s smoked too many cigarettes, or sucked too much cock, and Harry is appalled to realize that he’s getting aroused just listening.

“Harry,” Susan Bones’ voice cuts through his reverie. “I’m going to walk the perimeter, see if I can pick up any trace of Apparition beyond the property line, see if I can figure out how they got in. You go with Malfoy, check the spell residue in the bedroom; see if you can pull up a magical signature, or something this nutter dropped, or something.”

“Oh, but—” Harry starts, but Susan is already striding out the door, and now Harry is left alone with Malfoy, who’s observing him with far too much amusement for Harry’s comfort.

He clears his throat. “Er. Alright then, Malfoy—lead the way.”

“Certainly, _Auror_ Potter,” Malfoy says, voice scraping over the syllables, and it goes straight to Harry’s cock. 

Thankfully, Malfoy turns and heads up the stairs, which gives Harry a chance to adjust himself before following. What is _wrong_ with him?

Malfoy’s room is enormous, as Harry imagined (not imagined, _not imagined,_ he’s _never_ thought about Malfoy’s bedroom before), and done up in blues and greys. It’s soothing and peaceful, except for the wicked burn along the bed, cutting all the way through the mattress and still smoking faintly.

Harry frowns and sends a few diagnostic spells at the mark, which glows a petulant blue. “How odd,” he murmurs, moving closer and examining the pattern of the scorch. “And you didn’t hear anything spoken out loud?”

“No,” Malfoy’s voice is close, almost whispered into Harry’s ear, and the hair on the back of his neck stands up. “If they said anything, it was before I woke up, but there was enough of a delay between that and the spell actually casting that I doubt they said anything at all. The light was orange, I’m sure I mentioned that earlier. Do you know what it is?”

Harry sternly tells himself to not forget to add that the curse was orange to his notes. “I don’t, and that’s the odd thing—that blue colour usually shows for Healing spells. I don’t know any Healing spell that would do this, though, even an overpowered one. The only thing I can think of is it somehow was combined with something else...maybe a Shock Spell combined with an Incendio, or something?”

Malfoy sighs, stepping back as Harry gathers some of the smoke into an evidence vial and begins to cast around the room, looking for a signature trace. “Great, just what I wanted to hear—some psychopath not only figured out how to _invade my home,_ but he’s also invented some spell just for me. Wonderful.” The snide edge to his voice is sharpened by the huskiness, and Harry has to stop himself from squirming.

“He?” Harry replies, seizing on Malfoy’s word choice as a distraction. “I thought you couldn’t see their face or make out any features; why do you say ‘he’?”

Malfoy crosses his arms and gives Harry a slow, searching look up and down his body, and his eyes leave tracks of heat in their wake. Harry can’t stop the shiver that causes, and Malfoy’s clearly caught it, if his narrowed eyes are any indication. “He was _big,_ Potter. Not nearly as big as _you,_ though.” His voice drops even further, almost a purr.

Harry coughs hastily and steps back. “Er. Of course. Fine deduction there, Malfoy. Um…” he casts about for something to say. “You don’t. Why do you sound like that?” Fuck, not _that_.

Malfoy moves closer, his gait almost predatory. Harry feels pinned in place. “The Healers say smoke inhalation damage. From the Fiendfyre, you know. Why, Potter? Do you have thoughts about my voice?”

“No!” Harry protests, finally finding his feet again and backing up until he hits a wall. “No, I just— You just—”

Malfoy flickers a sharp smile, stopping when they’re just a few feet apart. The sunrise is beginning to pour through the windows, and it shines through his hair and gilds his edges. “You like it, don’t you? You’re thinking about what _else_ might have made me sound this way. Am I making your nipples hard, _Auror Potter_? Tell me, would you like me to Floo you at night and talk you off before you go to bed? What are you imagining that I’ll say?”

“Fuck,” Harry whimpers involuntarily; his nipples _are_ hard, and so is his cock, and his mind is flooded with images of himself laying in bed and twisting under the sensation of his own fingers while Malfoy whispers to him from the other side of the mattress. 

Malfoy smirks and closes the distance between them, reaching down and grabbing Harry’s prick through his robes. “My, _what_ have you been hiding, Harry?” he says, and it’s almost a growl, and Harry’s knees buckle, only the wall and Malfoy’s chest pressing against his holding him up. “I bet you want to hear what having this fucked down into my throat does to my voice. Do you think I’ll sound the same? I think you’re big enough to stop me from talking entirely, after; would you like that?”

“Oh god,” Harry moans as Malfoy slides his hand down and squeezes the base of his cock. “Bloody hell, Malfoy, I can’t— we can’t— I’m _at work,_ you were just _attacked,_ and—”

Malfoy lets go and steps back, tilting his head. “Is that your only objection, then?” he asks curiously, and Harry wants nothing more than to put him on his knees and fill that bratty mouth. “That you’re working?”

Harry blinks for a minute when the words register. “I mean… Sure, I guess. I can’t be involved with the victim of a crime, and the investigation has to come first…”

“One of Walden Macnair’s cousins has been sending me Howlers,” Malfoy says abruptly. “He doesn’t appreciate that I’m working with your Granger on establishing a more robust, codified set of exceptions to the Statute, to allow Muggleborns to tell more of their friends and family the truth and ensure they remain connected to their former life, instead of feeling like they have to choose between their childhood and the Wizarding world. He never took the Mark, so he stayed under your lot’s radar, but I have some very particular memories of his fondness for electroshock spells.”

Harry’s eyes widen, and he scrambles to scribble everything down. “Merlin. Alright. Why haven’t you reported these messages?”

Malfoy shrugs disdainfully and crosses his arms. “I get a lot of Howlers, Potter, from all sorts of people and both sides of the war. His charming little missives didn’t particularly stand out at all until you mentioned the Shock Spell. And let’s just say I’m...rather motivated for you to wrap this case up, now.” He glances pointedly down at Harry’s groin, where his robe is visibly tented.

Harry closes his eyes and calls upon every scrap of willpower he’s ever possessed. “Well then. Thank you for the lead. If you’ve recounted everything you remember, I have what I need for now; I’ll go find my partner and help her finish up her perimeter check. We will keep you apprised of the case’s progress, and, er...once things are wrapped up, I’ll...Owl you?”

Malfoy smiles slowly. “I think I’d prefer a _personal_ visit, Potter. You know, to reassure me that it’s been taken care of, and all. I’ll add you to the wards; please do feel free to drop by any time, day or night.” With that, he strides out of his bedroom, brushing against Harry as he leaves.

Harry stands against the wall for a bit longer, composing himself and willing his erection down before he heads out to meet with Susan.

Malfoy’s waiting for him at the front door when he finally makes his way back. “Needed a moment to yourself, Auror Potter?” he murmurs, and Harry flushes.

“No,” he squeaks out, and oh fuck, he’s getting hard again. “Malfoy, look, just— Please, don’t talk. _Please_. Let me get out of here with some shreds of my dignity still intact?”

Malfoy smirks, but says nothing, merely inclining his head in farewell as Harry hurries out the door.

Susan is almost finished when he finds her, and they head to the Ministry to write up the initial reports. Harry shares Malfoy’s lead, and a bit of sleuthing puts the Macnair cousin in a pub in Durrington the previous evening; close enough to the Manor for a task force, which means the case is handed off to Robards to organize a raid with the Hitwizards. Harry and Susan are still technically on the case, but their field work is done, and Harry’s grateful to be able to head home a few hours early considering he’d started work before the sun.

When he arrives home, there’s an envelope looks almost exactly like a Howler waiting in his bedroom, but it’s deep purple instead of red, and when Harry opens it he’s deeply grateful he cancelled on Ron and Hermione for dinner, because _of course_ it’s from Malfoy.

“Do you want to know what I did after you left, Auror Potter?” it starts, and just like that Harry’s hard again, and he fumbles his robes and trousers open to get a hand on himself.

**Author's Note:**

> the tumblr post for this fic is [here](https://bonesliketambourines.tumblr.com/post/632258851828269056/kinktober-day-16-in-my-ears).


End file.
